Stormy Weather
by Annie2
Summary: Spike thinks electrifying thoughts.


STORMY WEATHER  
  
By Annie  
  
Disclaimer: Owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy, unfortunately.  
  
Rated: R; suggestive  
  
Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net  
  
  
  
I stand uneasily against a cool stone wall and listen to the throaty rumble of the thunder in the deepening night.  
  
I have not even struck match to candle in my crypt yet, preferring instead to wallow in the smooth, enveloping darkness, listening with a touch of - I don't know - anticipation? longing? - to the approaching storm.  
  
I like the summer thunderstorms, with their resounding noise, bouncing from mountain to mountain, seeming to be everywhere at once, and I often wonder if they are worse over the Hellmouth than anywhere else. And the lightening, the flickering, dangerous energies, I like that, too. Never much thought about storms over the last hundred and twenty years or so, till just lately. Till I realized the Slayer was my storm.  
  
She is the thunder in my nights, rumbling unbidden and unstoppable through the storm that is my life. Even now, as a crashingly loud thunderclap reverberates around the stone walls, I can feel it through the cool against my back, heightening my senses and making me - something. Anxious, hungry, lonely, something.  
  
I can't see the lightening, as I have the door closed, but I know it's there, because I can feel the tingle in the night air, hear the sound that follows it as surely as night follows day, as surely as the Slayer's thunder follows the lightening in her eyes every time she looks at me. That electrifying, heart-dropping look she saves just for me: 'Oh, no,' it says, ' it's Spike, don't look him in the eye too long, don't lead him on, just feel sorry for him, all crippled and pathetic.'  
  
Bloody hell.  
  
She can look at me with that flash of 'what's Spike up to now?' in her eyes - those great, gorgeous eyes - and I am galvanized, electrified. Hard.  
  
Like now, just thinking about her, Buffy. I could say her name till my tongue dropped out and not speak it enough.  
  
The storm is getting quite furious and loud, the sound of the thunder increasing my hunger and uneasiness. I am so tense, so hyper, I am about to run out into the night and attack something. I'd probably get struck by lightening and fried, an ironic end, considering how carefully I have been avoiding the sun lo, these many years.  
  
Well, there are different forms of hunger, I muse, closing my eyes so that I can't see even the faintest glimmer of light should there be one.  
  
The storm rages outside, the thunder deafening, coming one clap right after another. The lightening must be severe, the rain must be flooding the streets and cemeteries of Sunnyhell, with strobes of daylight, quick little snatches of visibility in an otherwise black night.  
  
She is my personal lightening, strobing clarity into my dead, dark self, little snatches of William, long-hidden since the poet died and took his heart with him.  
  
I make a small, frustrated sound, keeping my eyes closed, feeling the hunger in me as my hand goes unbidden to push against the cold erection I have built with the memory of her eyes.  
  
I should have killed her - right away - as soon as I got to Sunnydale. Now it's too late.  
  
I try to distract myself with thoughts of hate - vampires are supposed to hate the Slayer - not get a hard-on every time she comes around. It doesn't work, of course, never does, as my hand just rubs the cool skin beneath it, finally succumbing to the heightened excitement of my thoughts and the storm, and pulling my cock out with practiced ease.  
  
Well, I'm gone now, can't venture out in this weather, can't hunt no matter what. No one around to share the darkness with me.  
  
I close my eyes tighter still, drawing pictures from my exceptional memory. I can probably visualize every single moment I have ever laid eyes on her, every outfit I have ever surreptitiously admired, even when I was supposed to be trying to kill her.  
  
The storm is at its' height, ready to pass on, and I want to keep my senses as acute as possible, I don't want the thunder and lightening to fade just yet.  
  
My hand has found its' favorite rhythm, and I find myself saying her name softly, again and again, in perfect cadence to the pleasure I am reaching for, till I finally push back hard against the stone wall and come, spraying gobs of cold lifelessness onto the floor.  
  
Unsatisfied, I slide down the wall despairingly and simply sit there, opening my eyes finally to the darkness that still comprises my existence. 


End file.
